Sanatorium's Worst
by Callipio
Summary: Harry and his friends are returning to Hogwarts School of the Creative and Artistically Driven, when a demon boards their train. Around the same time, something insidious climbs its way into Hogwarts, and it wants Harry. What's an art student to do?


_Notes:_

_ This was written for ash-luvgirl02's __If We Were Muggles__ challenge! I got the prompt: Dementors on the Train. I have now decided to make it a multi-chapter fiction over continuing You're Next, Potter (and I'll get back to that one later, I swear). _

_Warnings: AU of course. They are muggles in this, so if you dig that kind of stuff you're in for some fun. This will take place in their third year and there will be no pairings but I will NOT, N-O-T follow PoA specifically. Yes, Sirius is on the loose. Yes, Lupin is in this. Other things will be the same but I just can't let Malfoy be not their friend. So, this will include Harry/Draco friendship (they're thirteen!) but that's it. I promise there will be no slash in here at all. Swear it. Now, if I happen to make an epilogue four years in the future...well, we'll cross that road when we get there. Language, violence, all that. Have fun!_

**DISCLAIMER:** _I OWNETH NOT THE DISCERNIBLY RECOGNIZABLE CHARACTERS FROM THE HARRY POTTER WORLD, INCLUDING THE SETTINGS. DO NOT SUE-ETH ME. THANKS.__  
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**Sanatorium's Worst**

**_Demon on the Train_  
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Harry James Potter was a scruffy little youth. At the fresh age of thirteen he resented that he had yet to come into his height like his best friend Ron Weasley, but felt reassured by the fact that Ron himself hadn't started growing until about six months after his birthday.

Still, the long, lanky legs strewn all over the seat beside him felt like subtle mocking, seeing as Harry could barely touch the seat in front of him with his toe.

"Whew!" the compartment door slid open to reveal a flustered and curly-haired girl named Hermione Granger. She tugged a clunky, black violin case in after her, swearing as it tapped the edges of the wall. Ron snorted, rolling his eyes as the girl immediately threw the case onto the seat and cracked it open, apologizing over and over to her well-worn instrument.

"Seriously, Hermione," the red head yawned, stretching one hand high over his head, "it's fine. That case has titanium melded into it."

"Hmph," the girl uttered dismissively, carefully closing the case. "You don't understand what it is to love an instrument, Ronald."

"I do too!" he whined weakly, letting his head fall to the side. "I oil my piano at home every—_yawn_—day." Harry felt his lips curl as Hermione let out a giggle.

"Tired Ron?" she cooed, eyes narrowed teasingly. The boy merely smacked his lips and curled into the window, none of them missing his half-hidden grin.

The pose awoke the yearning, familiar feeling Harry always got when he wanted something to capture. Gluing his lips together so as not to utter the fatal _don't move! _He reached for the camera hanging around his neck and pressed the power button, thanking God he'd turned off the sound. As the shutter opened, the black-haired artist took the small window to his eye and listened to the whirrs and clicks as he captured a picture of his friend. This year he was indulging in a photography class as a possible double with his art major, which he would choose officially in his sixth year. He'd found cameras to be the best thing in the world because they created a solid image that he could recreate as much as he liked without worrying about the subject _moving_.

Hermione smiled over at him as he leaned into her lap to get a different angle of his friend. She reached into her travel bag and pulled out a new fiction novel just as the train shuttered to a start. The sound outside the window multiplied as children cried farewell to their parents and vice versa. The three remained seated, having already said their goodbyes, or, in Harry's case, having no one to say goodbye to.

Harry Potter and his friends, along with over a thousand other children ages eleven to seventeen, were on their way to Hogwarts School of the Creative and Artistically Driven. It was an extremely private school that a student had to be recruited into by a family member, teacher, or some other adult that took notice of talent and suggested them to Hogwarts. The school had a seven year long program that groomed and multiplied the inherent artistic talent that brought them to the school. Its students were either immediately picked off by scouts from all over Europe or accepted into prestigious music schools a year before any of their own generation by the end of it.

The school was filled with every lifestyle of student, from the scholarships to the rich, the ones with eight siblings to the parentless. Within Hogwarts, each child was a part of a family of peers and teachers. Because of the massive amount of students, everyone was sorted into four 'Houses' according to a personality form that was filled in with the acceptance letter. The first night back, there was a huge celebration where all of the first years were called out and sorted into their houses. It was probably Harry's favorite night of all the school year.

Harry was just glad they didn't sort according to talent because he couldn't imagine not being in a house with Hermione and Ron. Harry was an artist through and through. He loved being able to capture his favorite memories on paper. Hermione was set on a major in Symphony Orchestra and Composition Writing. Ron was in the middle of a division with his talent, seeing as he had started with Piano and somehow morphed into a Drama freak halfway through last year. This year he was halving his curriculum between piano and drama to figure out if he could do both.

Some days, Harry felt normal compared to his friends. They both had the talent to create _and _play something, but what could he do? Draw. He wasn't even that good at painting, he could just use pencil and pen. He felt a bit, well, _less talented _compared to them.

Hermione would hit him so fast his eyesight would correct if she knew about these secret thoughts. It wasn't that Harry didn't think he was _good _at what he did_; _it was just that sometimes he didn't feel good enough to be a part of such a prestigious school. It didn't help that his aunt and uncle said exactly that every summer.

However, every year Harry came back with a surge of determination to prove his relatives wrong, and worked hard at his craft. Every year, he got better, and every year he returned to his summer arrangements with more and more confidence.

Taking out his drafting notebook, he started sketching Ron in his current position, feeling resigned when, two seconds in, the boy moved.

About two hours later, (Ron had changed positions eight times and was listening to music off of his CD player), Hermione set her book down and leaned over to look at Harry's picture. He'd gone for a decidedly abstract rout, keeping the seat of the compartment whispy and deformed and making Ron's face simple, fairy-like in its contortions. About the only thing he really worked on were the wry limbs, trying to make them as lanky but as delicate as he pictured in his mind's eye.

"That's fantastic Harry," the violinist breathed, "you should show this to whoever the Art Director is this year. They'd be impressed." The three friends laughed, a bit ironically, considering last year the AD had been a total psycho. Thought himself a real Van Goh. He'd been fired for setting a fifth year's portrait on fire because he thought she was "joking" for presenting such a terrible piece of art to him.

"Speaking of gossip, did you hear about—" Ron's next words were cut off mid-breath when the door slid open.

"Well, well, it's the Red-Head wonder and his band of loyal thieves, back for another year of heroics!"

"Shove off twinkle toes," Ron hissed, going from zero to rage in under a second.

The boy in the doorway sucked in a breath but was otherwise unfazed by the taunt. The train shuddered a bit and he leaned against the door, one long, pale hand curling on the edge. He sneered, "I see you haven't bothered to invest in new insults, Weasleby. Oh, wait, your family can't invest in anything. My bad."

Ron's freckled face slowly turned into a deep, unhealthy shade of red. Deciding he should intervene, Harry stood.

"Shove it, Malfoy," the raven-haired boy snarled, taking a stance beside Ron.

"What are _you _going to do Potter? Stab me with your pencils?" The blonde rolled his eyes luxuriously, "Oh, no you won't. Precious Potter couldn't possibly be anything but the hero." Harry bristled, curling his hands into fists.

Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter were the closest things to opposites you could get. Malfoy was pale with a shock of well-groomed white hair where Harry was tan and disheveled. Thin, lithe, and utterly balanced, Malfoy's major was ballet but, in his case, the ability to kick over his shoulders made him a dangerous figure instead of a helpless, girly one. That all combined with an attitude that would sneer at angels if given the chance, he was the trio's foe and had been for the last two years.

Malfoy took special care to attack Harry the most, to which the boy responded with vigor, all because Harry had called him a stuck-up ass the first day of school. They were in no less than fifteen fist fights, with only one documented, last year. Most of the time, it was retaliation for a prank gone bad. Like when Malfoy set a real snake in Harry's backpack and scared the living hell out of him during lunch. Or when Harry let the horse that Professor Hagrid (teacher of Culinary Arts, a relatively new Major) was taking care of stomp up to Malfoy and push him into a mud puddle. But when Malfoy had painted one of his best sketches pink, Harry had resorted to stealing _all _of Malfoy's performance shoes the day before The Showcase. He'd been so upset he'd almost cried until Harry, true to form, felt the guilt was too much and put them back in his bag.

"Take the stick out of your arse and eat it, Malfoy," Harry fumed, feeling his temper on the rise.

The blonde stepped forward, only slightly taller than him, and pressed into Harry. "Let's see if Boy Wonder has learned to bite this summer," he challenged, chromium eyes sparking with delight. Harry felt adrenaline rise in his veins, his fists coming up in anticipation for the fight that he suddenly thirsted for. Fights with Malfoy incited such sense of life in him, every year he looked forward to them. There was nothing better to take the stress out on than a hefty punch in Malfoy's—

_Screeeeeeee_

"What the hell is that?" Malfoy muttered, looking up. Suddenly, the whole train lurched. Hermione yipped and held onto her violin for dear life. There was a pause and then it lurched again, sending Ron tumbling into his seat and Malfoy into the door. Harry sought out the seat opposite Ron, propping his toes against the floor so he wouldn't slip.

The train was thrown forward again, this time the lights going out with it, and only then did Harry register the shouts and screams coming from all over the train. Malfoy snarled with pain as someone in the hall ran into him, pushing him into Harry's feet.

Finally, the train halted. They all let out small sighs of relief. Harry could feel the turbines and chambers shuddering to a halt. Malfoy was still standing there in the doorway, moaning in pain. Harry looked around, feeling his heart flutter in his chest. Ron inched to the window, straining to look outside but, true to English weather, it was pouring. Lighting flashed ominously, followed by a crash of thunder.

"Why'd we stop?" Hermione whispered, her voice wary and meek. Harry huddled closer to her, suddenly cold. Malfoy's silhouette was still there; he could dimly make out his head turning to look down the hall. Harry thought he saw him trembling.

_I should kick him out now. He's such a git to us. Let him be scared for once. _

"Sit down, Malfoy," Harry said roughly, rolling his eyes at his own weakness. The boy sputtered for a second, seemed to be about to walk off, but then sat down without complaint.

"Harry, what—"

"Shh," Harry snapped, cutting Ron off. He'd heard something.

Just then, the intercom crackled into life. "_Students,_" the thin, commanding voice of the ballet instructor was a relief to hear at first. "_Do not panic. Return to your compartments and close the door._"

"Close the door?" Hermione whispered. "Why would we close the door? Is there someone on the train?" Her voice shot from scared to hysterical, making Harry grasp her hand strongly.

"No, they probably just don't want us wandering about," he reassured. Harry stood up, reaching for the handle, listening to compartment doors slide shut all around them. Just as he got a grip on it, two bodies rushed into him. He couldn't help the surprised yelp that he let out before all three of them went crashing to the floor.

"Harry!"

"Sorry!"

"_My foot!_"

"Is that Malfoy?"

"Shut up, Ginny," Ron whispered from his corner.

Harry pushed up between Ginny and what sounded like their friend Neville, intent on closing the door. Ginny rolled off him and jumped into her brother's lap, Hermione helped Neville to his feet. "I'm sorry Harry, I didn't mean—"

"It's okay," the boy said, getting to his feet. "Don't—"

Malfoy let out a strangled cry. "_Harry_!" Hermione screeched, pointing at the doorway. Ginny and Ron both gasped audibly. Dread worked its way up the scruffy, thirteen-year olds stomach as he lifted his head to the doorway.

Framed by the waning, stormy light from the windows stood a cloaked figure. It appeared to have materialized in their doorway. The head cocked to the side, briefly, and then it moved forward, its cloak eerily soundless.

One long-boned hand was reaching toward him. Harry could make out his curved, moon-white fingernails, and was enraptured for a moment by the way they gleamed. Then he heard it. The rattling, wet, sickly breaths like the man's lungs were rotting from the inside. A smell accompanied it, a stench like sour meat. Shuddering, Harry stepped back, watching this—this _thing _follow him with startling swiftness. Its fingers uncurled, grabbing for Harry's shirt.

"_No_," Harry tried to shout, but all that came out was a weak whimper. "_No, no, stay away—get away, STAY AWAY FROM ME!_"

He picked up his metal pencil box and waved it like a hammer, catching the thing's wrist. It made no sound of pain even though Harry had felt the bone jar beneath the box. A growl filled the compartment.

_Oh god, _Harry thought, dropping the box, _this is it. This is the end. I just pissed him off. Oh god._

This time, when the creature rushed forward it managed to latch onto Harry's shirt and started dragging him to it. Harry felt like he was in a bad dream and went limp. The world was curling white at the edges. It was too much. He wasn't afraid, but he didn't feel anything else. _Couldn't _feel anything else. It was so unreal. _He was being attacked by a monster._ Hysterical laughter fought to escape his mouth but he clamped down on it, locking himself away in a safe place, somewhere inside himself.

Blackness floated into his vision as the nightmare brought his face close to its own. Great, rattling gasps drummed in his ears. Rancid, shit-smelling breath flushed in his face making Harry's eyes roll back in his head.

_Take me away from here, _he prayed, wishing at once, inexplicably, for his mother.

There was a moment of awareness, of hearing his name on someone's lips, and then he collapsed in the dark.

_She was singing. It sounded soft and light. He was in a gold and cream colored place. Wings seemed to be batting against his face, making him wrinkle his nose. There was far-off laughter. _

_Harry. _

_A warm, caressing voice. _

'_Mum?'_

_Ha—rry, she sang. _

'_Mum?'_

_Come back to me dear. The voice was close now, whispering right in his ear. Wake up. Wake up, sweetie. Har—ry. _

"_Har_ry?"

"Harry?"

"Wake up, mate."

"Mr. Potter? Are you with us?"

Slowly, Harry cracked his eyes open, immediately wincing at the light. A gasp—and then happy murmuring filled the room. The floor vibrated under him.

"It _was_ a nightmare," Harry whispered, feeling relieved.

The happiness in the room cut off suddenly, making the boy open his eyes again. Someone pushed his glasses into his hand. Another hand grasped his shoulder and helped him sit up. He looked up, feeling the stares of his friends on his shoulders but only having eyes for the man sitting on his knees before him.

The man was scarred, but when he smiled they seemed to melt off his face. "Glad to meet you Mr. Potter, up on your feet, metaphorically."

The teen nodded uncertainly.

"Sorry, I'm Remus Lupin, the new art director." He held out his hand, which Harry shook.

"Nice to meet you, but, um, why are you in here?" He was confused. How did he end up on the floor? Had he had a fit, or something? He shuddered. _Was it real? No, no. It couldn't have been._

Lupin pushed a bar of chocolate at him, running his other hand through his graying brown hair. "You should have seen it Harry!" Ron exclaimed his voice excited but dripping with nervousness. "He tazed that—that freak that was in here. It was…pretty bloody fantastic."

"Ron!" Hermione admonished.

Lupin just smiled. "Well, it was the least I could do. He never should have been on the train."

Harry sat, frozen. "It _was_ real?" he demanded, catching Lupin's gaze.

Lupin met Harry's look with calm, studious eyes. Harry felt doused with cold water at the look, but a strange cleanliness accompanied it. He knew this man wouldn't lie to him. "It was," Lupin responded, not removing his gaze. "The train was stopped because the police called in and said an escaped prisoner may have been on board. Apparently they received a tip from someone who had seen a strange man board the train just after it took off. Of course, this was long after we'd left." The man smiled grimly, but it slipped from his mouth at Harry's blank expression. "I'm so sorry you had to go through that," Lupin said sincerely.

"It's okay," Harry retorted quickly, not wanting to look like a coward, or a weakling. He ripped open the chocolate. "I'm fine. He didn't do anything to me."

Lupin still looked grim, but he nodded, getting to his feet and helping Harry up.

"I'll see you for class then, Mr. Potter." With that, the thin, raggedy teacher whisked through the door and back up the train. Immediately, Hermione wrapped her arms around him.

"Oh Harry, are you alright? I was so worried for you! I thought you'd been hurt! It was so terrifying; I never want to see the lights go out on the train again!"

"Give him room to breathe, Hermione," Ron laughed. Once she let him go, he clapped his friend into a brisk hug. "Glad to see you're alright, mate."

Harry nodded, smiling in his own relief that nobody else was hurt. He turned, scanning the compartment. "Where did Ginny and Neville go?"

"They scat along with Malfoy when the teachers and police came by, but we made them let us stay," Hermione filled in.

"I wouldn't be surprised if Malfoy's going around the train saying how he saved you from that freak," Ron muttered.

Sighing, Harry sat back down, eyeing his pencil kit lying neatly on top of his sketchbook. A bit of _something _was splattered on one corner. Lifting it, the boy slowly wiped it away with his sleeve, pretending he didn't know it was the black blood of that nightmare. Subtly, he wiped at his face, remembering how the prisoner's breath had condensed on his skin. He wanted nothing more than to go somewhere and rub his skin raw.

It was just easier to pretend it was a dream, even if the evidence was staring him in the face. He swallowed thickly.

_What stuff for nightmares,_ he thought glumly. As if he didn't have enough.

"Harry?" Hermione asked tentatively, gently grasping his arm.

Mustering his best smile, Harry turned towards her. "I'll be fine, guys. Do they know…who—who it was?"

Ron shrugged, "They didn't say, but I think it was this Sirius Black fellow. He just escaped from a mental institution. That was what I was going to tell you guys before…"

Harry nodded, quickly avoiding confronting what had just happened.

"No," Hermione said slowly, messing with her hands. "No, now I remember." She met each of their eyes, "That was—this awful man I've heard of, he just escaped today, I saw it in the papers." She took a deep breath, "His real name is McGregory Wilson, but people called him the Demon of Torris. He—he cut open all the children in this little village in Scotland a long time ago. He wrote these awful journal entries about—about how he wanted to eat their souls."

All noise in the compartment faded away with Hermione's voice, and Harry found himself staring unseeingly at the chair in front of him, trying not to imagine what his fate might have been had Lupin not saved his life.

**A.N- Wow! That was fun to write. I like the concept so much I think I'll store this away and actually make this a multi-chapter fic one day, once I'm done with LHSP! I hope my Challenge-Giver liked it, along with anyone else who reads this.**


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